Tug of War
by HeathyrFeathyr
Summary: Gisborne has found a bride, but her father will not let her go to the villain of Nottingham so easily. Both men will resort to cunning, brute force, and cruelty to get their way. Can Guy win his wife and, ultimately, control of his own life? AU. Reviews appreciated!
1. Chapter 1

"Do you trust him, Gisborne?"

"Not as far as I could throw him," Guy sneered, his words dancing between the flames of candlelight, "But he does seem to know what he's doing – the Earl of Durham seemed quite pleased with his work and the barbican in Norfolk is quite formidable, I hear."

"High praise from you… we shall see if this Nash is worth his weight in salt," Vaisey doubtfully added to their hushed conversation. The men filled the Sherriff's dark office with even darker conversation, "The last building project we had was such a kerfuffle – 'oh this strong room is amazing, oh your treasure's so safe' – fat lot of good that did us! If we are to rid ourselves of this Robin Hood and grow our brotherhood stronger, we must make this castle stronger."

"Agreed," Gisborne muttered as a silver skinned castle guard drew open the heavy wooden door and announced their guest. After great anticipation Nottingham's leader finally saw the most sought-after castle architect and felt immediately underwhelmed; through the door came a man whose stature was only slightly more than that of Vaisey, his large brown eyes and fading hair looking tired. The gentlemen gave their standard evening greetings and immediately got down to business.

"Ah, the infamous George Nash; you certainly cost a pretty penny eh?'

"My Lord Sherriff, you have a lovely township and castle – very easy for me to have gotten in to," the architect quipped back, "but with that pretty penny I will be sure to resolve such issues."

"I have never had a man speak to me that way and expect to be handed accommodation!" Vaisey shouted before morphing in to a sly and foul grin, "You're confident. I like that. Let's just hope you can measure up to the expectations you set, hm? What exactly do you plan to accomplish here?"

"Well, I will have to have a deeper look, of course, but for starters…"

Outside the door Marian's rose-colored skirt dusted away from the conversation with frustration. Her leather clad feet gently danced across stone hallways and steps until she reached the garden, where the sliver of the setting sun burned an orange hue across the plants. She carefully watched as rotations of guards meandered around, her blue eyes tracking their attention as her hands fiddled with a daisy. She sat herself on a cold stone bench and leaned back against the exterior wall. After a deep sigh she turned to face a slit in the wall designed for defending archers to shoot through.

"I have no idea."

"What do you mean you have no idea? Marian, I need to know what's happening in that room!"

"Well if you can find a way to get this architect's plans be my guest, Robin," she hissed in a whisper, "but I can't hear a thing. I really cannot afford to be on Guy's bad side more than I already am, either. I'll let the dust settle a bit and see what I can find out."

"The Sherriff has to be up to something, something big," Robin pondered with his back to the opposite side of the garden wall, "It can't be good… I hate you being in there. I hate you being so far from me."

"Believe me, no one hates my imprisonment here more than I do… but I will be with you again soon enough, my love."

"Thank you. For everything," Robin told her sentimentally. A smile tugged at his lips when, out through the archer's slot, poked a tender white daisy. He reached out to it with a calloused hand, his rough fingers running along the silky petals, and gave the flower a kiss. It was nearly as lovely as his estranged Marian. Robin of Locksley tenderly tucked his prized daisy in to his laced-up vest and melted back in to the wilderness.

Marian bit her lip in anxiety. She felt like a caged animal in this sprawling stone fortress and her uncertainty about the Sherriff's plans definitely didn't assuage her. What could he need an architect for? A new, vicious weapon? Hearty, solid defense? What monstrous threat did Vaisey foresee that could require such extravagant spending? She shuddered at the memory of Nottingham being on the brink of catastrophe when the Sherriff went missing – the way innocent townsfolk screamed, the adrenaline in her veins screeching to run but knowing she had to fight, the clattering of halberds and swords thirsty for blood. What sinister fate sat on the horizon for Nottingham?

"Marian!"

She clutched her hands together and jolted at hearing Gisborne bark her name.

"Sir Guy-"

"It's nearly dark, you shouldn't be outdoors. Get inside," he bitterly ordered and continued on his way; the sour stench of his hatred for her infused every moment they were in the same room. Breaking off her engagement to him may have been freeing in many ways, but it certainly didn't feel like it. The bad blood between them burned the air. Marian bit the inside of her cheeks to restrain any returning quips. _I will get to the bottom of whatever you are up to,_ she mentally vowed, _and Robin will see me freed from this. Just you wait, Guy of Gisborne. Your days here are numbered._


	2. Chapter 2

A small bite had entered the air of England's mornings as September began to melt away, leading most of Gisborne's passerby to be wrapped up in cloaks and shawls. The people of Nottingham were sure to give plenty of leeway for the man in black as he pounded along the city's streets, his hands never too far from the hilt of brash daggers. Dozens of hopeful merchants already had their wares and booths up by the time the sun was and had attracted a healthy crowd to the markets to begin the day. Guy was not in the same chipper mood as the sellers, however. After a long night of being hounded by Vaisey about late documents he was determined to get a new round of updated sketches from their architect. In the backdrop of the town Nash's changes could already be seen going underway – square towers were being softened to round spires to prevent collapsing corners and strategic machicolations began dotting the perimeter. Gisborne looked forward to the end of the year when all of this faff was finished and he could scratch keeping up with Nash from his to do list. The military man and the architect were getting on like oil and water; they were both too strong headed and set in their ways to coincide. With a cavernous sigh Guy approached the small wooden house arranged for their employee. It was sandwiched between half timbered homes along one of the city's streets and featured a wide upstairs jutting out over the road from behind a menacing blackthorn bush that twisted its wicked branches along the outer walls. Gisborne gave a quick knock and stubbornly put his hands to his hips, instantly flinching at a stab from the blackthorn bush just behind him. He scowled at the offending plant and cursed its yellowing leaves just as the door opened.

"Can I help you?" asked a young woman as she peeked around the thick door.

"Mister Nash should be expecting me," he shortly responded, "I've come to collect his plans."

"Yes! You must be the Sherriff," she whipped open the door and all but swept him inside, "please come out of that chilly wind."

"I am not the Sherriff," Gisborne squinted quizzically. The young lady blushed and stammered briefly as she refused eye contact. She stood only up to his shoulders and seemed lost for words, her blonde curls piled on top of her head as flour veiled her clothing.

"Well, um… I will let him know you're here," she chirped while scurrying up the staircase across the room. Gisborne sucked the air through his teeth and surveyed the lower level of the home as he waited. Freshly baked rolls crowned a near by table and wafted the smell of dried fruit and cinnamon around. They are paying Nash far too much, Gisborne thought, if he could afford cinnamon. His negativity was interrupted as the servant girl returned with a meek smile. "He will be right down."

"Takes his time, doesn't he?" was the bitter reply.

"Will you be staying? Could I interest you in a fresh roll?"

"…Sure." Guy eventually gave in to the enticing smell. He watched her carefully select a ball of bread and graciously accepted it. As the footsteps of George Nash came down the stairs she scampered away yet again, leaving the men to their business.

"Good morrow, Sir Guy, I was planning to see – "

"The Sherriff was promised a new set of plans yesterday," his voice boomed with thin patience, "and just where the hell are they then?" The architect had all decorum drop from his face as he stepped up to the man in black, scrolls of information tucked safely beneath his arm.

"I have your precious plans, don't you worry. I take my job very seriously, you know, and would appreciate more respect for how much work I am putting in to your town."

"I'm not paying you to be your friend. Maybe we should start crediting you with respect instead of coin – you seem to be doing well. Exotic spices, free room and board, your own travelling staff…"

"I have no staff," George offered a small smile, "That is my daughter, Catherine. I will not apologize for giving her a comfortable life."

"She's what, 25, and unmarried? And being dragged around to build drawbridges all day – what a comfortable life indeed."

"Don't worry about how I raise my child," Nash bit as he shoved the parchments over to Gisborne, "I will have you know that after this project sees its end, and my favor with Prince John grows, I will be off to London with her to construct the Tower there. I will find Catherine a well-off merchant that will provide her every desire, and keep her out of God forsaken places like this."

"You really are a planner, aren't you?" Guy smirked.

"It has gotten me this far in life; do you not plan your future, Sir Guy?"

"I find that life plans things very differently than I do," he answered while retreating to the exit. Gisborne flipped around one last time as the door opened, "Also, not to ruin your meticulous plans, but the Sherriff is hosting a harvest festival at the end of the week. We will need the front entrance and courtyard clear of construction by then."

"Not a problem." Nash guaranteed as he closed out the cold of the weather and the tax man.

"A party sounds fun." Catherine's eyes glowed as she peeked down the stairs. George met her at their base and wiped dusty flour from her cheek.

"I wouldn't waste our time, darling."

"Daddy, we have been here for over a month and the only people I know sell us cloth and vegetables," she countered with frustration, "we are so lucky to travel and see new people, we ought to get to know them."

"Catherine, these are not the people to know," he said with a steely resolve, "England is sick in its time of war and Nottingham is even worse. I have worked for these types of men for years, and there is nothing more to them than their greed and vanity. Let's not waste your time or mine."

"So, I should waste my time doing cross stiches instead of dancing? Come on, don't be silly," she jokingly rolled her eyes and grabbed on to a cinnamon bread, "what's the worst that could happen? It's not like this party will change our lives forever..."


	3. Chapter 3

The autumnal celebrations of Nottingham charged from the afternoon well in to the evenings. Crowds of jaunty citizens swelled in to the castle grounds and burst its seams with over the top entertainers, merry music, and all sorts of revelry. Buffets of food from succulent fruits to hearth baked pies scattered abound on shimmering gold platters, their colors and scents accompanying dozens of roasted peacocks and geese with ornamental feathers and gilding on the beaks. It was quite simply extravagant. It would be a very easy event to get shuffled in to, a fact that Alan a Dale and Will Scarlett took full advantage of. Their careful paces and soft footsteps went undetected as the great hall sat littered with laughter, drinks, and games.

"It just looks like solid defense on the outside – we have been round and round in circles a million times. What are we looking for, eh?"

"I don't know," Will sighed with a pause in his pace, "But when we see it we will know. That's what Robin said."

"What makes you think there's anything happening on the inside, anyways? I mean don't get me wrong, they could use nicer looking curtains in this joint, but that doesn't seem to be happening any time soon."

"Why would the Sherriff funnel his precious taxes away from the Crusades and in to fortifying Nottingham? What is he expecting to happen? Or, even worse, what could he be hiding in plain sight?"

"What do you mean?" Alan asked as he ran his hands along cold and lifeless stone walls.

"Well it's not suspicious to have architects and builders coming in and out if you show off work on the outside… But how do we know that's all they're doing? Maybe Robin will turn something up at the architect's house."

This paranoid conversation was interrupted by another bouncing song starting up in the celebration. Hood's accomplices slinked along as Marian kept an eye on security from inside the bash. She held on to her metal goblet sheepishly as she watched the eyes scan her from around the room; any time she had felt like an outsider before couldn't compare to this. Ever since dissolving her engagement to Gisborne last spring, on their actual wedding day no less, she was the subject of many hushed conversations. Marian constantly tried to remind herself that she was fortunate; getting cold feet didn't give her any formal imprisonment or time in the stocks, but it did reseal her fate as an item to be kept in the castle. She wished that she had actually taken up Robin's offer and run off to the forest. She wished she had the courage to be an outlaw like her love. But, alas, Marian had only enough courage to humiliate Gisborne and slink back to the castle. She wasn't sure whether she truly was more help to the outlaws here or if she had just convinced herself of it. In her wallowing she nearly didn't notice a woman speak directly to her.

"I beg your pardon?" Marian snapped out of her self-pity.

"I asked if you could hand me one of those bottles of wine, please."

"Of course." She shook her head and popped open one of the many bottles behind her on a table, giving a healthy replenishment to both drinks.

"It's almost too drinkable, this stuff," the blonde guest smiled before a sip, "My name is Catherine, by the way. I haven't –"

"It's lovely to meet you, and I'm sorry, but I can't quite talk now." Marian's voice trailed off as she carefully observed two pairs of guards filing up the wooden steps leading to the foyer. In her focus she failed to see the veil of disappointment drape over Catherine Nash as they parted ways.

Perhaps her father was right and the people of Nottingham were not the quality bunch of England. It made her long for Norfolk and her friends along the coast; with them she would be singing and dancing until sunrise. In Nottingham alone, however, all she had encountered in her hour of festivities were over indulgent peasants and men who were too free with both their alcohol and their hands. It would be best, she supposed, to find her father in this hubbub and concede his point. Her petite stature proved a hindrance, however; she could hardly see jugglers or minstrels over the shoulders of the crowd, how would she find one specific man? Catherine set off to the outside doors for air. Knowing George, he was around as few people as possible and taking in the stars. Funneling up the steps and out through halls she did not turn up the fruit of her search. She examined the faces of men on a bench to her left while turning right and was jolted as her goblet collided with another. In shock she traced her gaze up from the now wet and crimson floor to steely blue eyes.

"I am so sorry, this was completely my fault," Catherine bit her lip and set down her now empty cup.

"S'alright," Gisborne apathetically responded.

"No, let me get you another. It's the least I can do," she assured him, gently placing her hand on his arm for a moment. Guy looked down to her hand and watched her carefully as she hopped across to a server and hurried back with two more plentiful metal goblets. The cranberry shaded drink nearly matched her gown, "My apologies again."

"It's no trouble," he said in a distracted tone as his mind shuffled through files of memories, "Lady…?"

"Miss Nash – Catherine Nash."

"Yes, of course, George Nash's daughter," Guy recalled with some bitterness to his architect's name, "We have met."

"Indeed, and thank goodness. I would hate to think that this was my first impression!" she laughed, the prominent cheekbones on her heart shaped face blushing with her smile. Gisborne found himself hesitating in the conversation – this was, after all, a conversation. At these events, or any public outing, he always found himself isolated and at the end of whispers or averted stares. No one casually converses with the tax man, with the jail keeper, with the henchman of the Sherriff – not without ulterior motive, that is. He locked his blue eyes with hers and drew in a refreshed breath.

"Your first impression will luckily always be a lovely cinnamon bread."

"Oh yes? My father has me make it every morning. I don't think he would bother getting out of bed without it."

"So that's all I need to do to keep him out of my hair, eh? Get rid of some bread?" The man in black muttered before realizing how cruel that may have sounded. He was surprised to receive another chuckle from Catherine, "That was rude of me."

"No it's quite alright. I get it. My father can be… a lot to put up with. He calls it being determined, but it's really just being overbearing," She gave a little roll of her eyes and took another drink, "But don't let my troubles keep you from your party. Enjoy yourself." Catherine stepped aside slightly as he weighed his options. Both of them had wine in their hands and their veins.

"It might be more enjoyable if I had the pleasure of your company," a small but confident grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"I'd like that."


	4. Chapter 4

The air had a cold that ate at skin and slipped through crevices along doors and windows like thieves in the dark. Inside Nottingham's castle patrons were oblivious to night falling as the autumnal festivities raged on. After yet another glass of strong wine even Gisborne found himself a little more relaxed, a little less aggressive, and dare he say a little glad to be in the party. Clowns were commanding attention in the great hall as they held a mock duel, the lesser combatant flailing in battle with fabric swords, and causing a racket of laughs in response. The Sherriff's attack dog was perched above the crowd on the hall's upper deck ignoring the clamoring unfold as his newfound companion kept her eyes locked on the scene.

"I doubt my father has told you this, but thank you. Your hospitality since arriving has been so kind."

"I've done only what his business contract outlined."

"Yes, but," Catherine turned to look up at him with deep blue eyes, "the accommodation you have sorted is lovely and having us here tonight is very appreciated."

"I haven't had the misfortune of running in to your father here this evening."

"No, I imagine he has gone off to look after his projects in this castle after hours… but enough about him. Tell me about you."

"Me?" Guy sniffed and felt a pang of panic. His ego got a sense of excitement to stretch and flaunt his accolades, but his heart quickly drew on a thick hide. His insecurities hissed and whispered across his brain; what was there to tell? He has land, that he didn't inherit but snapped up in a shady deal. He built himself up to grandeur, but only because he alienated anyone besides his pride. He has a title, but was abandoned earlier this year at the altar like a damn fool in front of every person in this room. The only reason he was interested in standing by Catherine, he thought, was because she was the only one who didn't know him and that anonymity was rather freeing. Gisborne didn't have to flash the hilt of his sword in authority or divvy up her taxes. By the end of the year the Nashs would be off to another adventure building buttresses and Nottingham would continue, hopefully with a more fleshed out Dark Knight order humming in the heart of this castle. But as for Catherine, she would be gone and no impression he left would matter.

"I worry I could talk your ear off all night."

"I'm more of a listener than a talker."

"Oh, we may get on very well then," she smiled and finished off her drink, "but I do have a serious question. Please be honest with me." Gisborne straightened a bit at the change in her tone. A shade of concern colored her face as she looked in to his eyes.

"Yes?"

"How worried should I be about this… Robin Hood? I have heard a few different things as we got closer to Nottingham and I just… I can't help but be nervous."

"Robin Hood…" Guy spit out the words like they had a metallic after taste, "is not worth your thinking about."

"We're talking about outlaws here, actual outlaws in like a gang, coming in and out of the woods like smoke. It makes me, well… I suppose this wine has made me a bit silly."

"He will see his day at the rope. I guarantee it," Guy gave with an iron clad resolve, "and you will have nothing to fear."

"Thank you," Catherine managed a weak smile to try and convince herself that his words offered physical safety, "now, I really must think about getting home."

"Its only just gone dark."

"Yes, well, we both know my father," she rolled her eyes and watched his expression match hers, "and he didn't really want to be out in the first place, so…"

"I'm sure he wouldn't want you walking home alone," Guy pressed with a confident attitude. The corners of her mouth tugged into a small smile.

"It's just a few blocks from the gate. Would you be willing to walk with me?" she asked with an ember of hope. Without a word Gisborne slipped his gloves from a pocket and extended an arm to invite Catherine out front. She also produced gloves for the cold and they made their way out to the castle courtyard.

Even here just beyond the gate scatters of giddy locals laughed and sang and enjoyed the reaps of their annual toil. Once the pair began walking in stride Guy watched how she moved. They were walking shoulder to shoulder, or they would be if she wasn't so much shorter with her head at his shoulder. With each step she took her blonde curls bounced in sync as if to hurry her along. Few words were said, mostly comments about surroundings like sold out pie carts or color morphing foliage, until they reached the temporary Nash home. The sinister blackthorn bush clung to the house's face and mocked Gisborne for its previous attack. Before turning in for the night Catherine faced the man in black and gave him a smile.

"Thank you. Again, I find myself in debt to your kindness."

"It's no trouble," he assured with a smirk.

"I know it's silly, but it means a lot to have had your company," she admitted while looking down and her fiddling fingers, "I have been in a different county every winter for the past three years and it's a bit difficult to meet people. You probably wouldn't understand, but it's really nice to have somebody speak to me like a person and not just as some employee's plus one."

"I understand more than you think," he reluctantly replied, "how many times have you looked to have a drink with your tax collector?"

"Indeed. We're two sides of a coin – I have nowhere to plant roots and be someone, but you are so rooted here that you can't be just anyone," Catherine pondered as the icy wind danced among them. Guy's blood froze in his veins, but not from the weather. He was stupefied to hear that she saw him, actually _saw him_ , and did not know what to say. His skin itched in discomfort at feeling so naked. For years he felt tormented in loneliness and sat abandoned even in engagement to Marian. But here, after two brief meetings, this girl saw him. And it scared the shit out of him.

"I hope you have a good evening," he mustered out while diverting his gaze.

"You too, Sir Guy," Catherine smiled before retreating to the shelter of her home.

It was dark inside, the blackness impeding on her childish fears of all things that go bump in the night. It was apparent that her father had not yet returned. She was quick to grab flint and erupt a roaring fire in the hearth, one that would comfort both her physical and emotional cold in the barren building. Grabbing a candlestick, she wandered up the stairs to escape from her chilled and uncomfortable leather shoes. Catherine grabbed the handle to her bedroom and froze. What sound did she just hear? It must have been wind, or her imagination, or one of the pigs they kept next door. Right? She stood motionless until she dismissed the unfounded fear. She was being such a silly girl after a few drinks; nothing a good night's sleep couldn't fix.

Catherine entered and suddenly heard the bedroom door shut forcefully behind her. With a quick turn on her heel she realized she was, in fact, not alone in this house after all. In the corner between the door and the wall stood a man, his broad shoulders and height a clear physical advantage over her. His blue eyes flickered in the light of her candle as she screamed. It only took this man two wide steps to reach her, his hooded cloak flowing at his back, and he quickly turned his hand to cover her mouth. Catherine felt his other hand holding her back firmly. She wanted to shut her eyes and pretend it wasn't happening, but each nerve beneath her skin frayed in fear and made her unable to move.

"I'm not going to hurt you," the man softly told her, "I promise. I just want to talk; can we talk?"

Catherine stared at his beard as he spoke, unable to face looking in to his eyes. She noticed the debris of leaves on the edge of his hood but did not respond to him.

"My name is Robin, okay, and I want to help your father. I fear he may be in trouble with the Sherriff. Do you know what he has been hired to build at the castle?"

Catherine found herself shaking her head minutely no, but even she was unsure if it was an answer to the question or the sheer position she was in.

"If I take my hand off of your mouth, can we talk? Just talking," he gently said but still received no response beyond wide deer eyes. A man of his word, Robin slowly removed his calloused hands from the blonde and gave a small bow, "My name is Robin Hood – "

At this Catherine released another exasperated scream and scrambled across her bed to the opposite end of the room, her reflexes and adrenaline heightened. The outlaw opened his mouth to speak again but was interrupted by heavy footsteps thundering up the staircase. In a flash like flickering fire he tucked a pair of leather-bound scrolls beneath his arm and slipped along the wall to an adjacent window, the fringe of his cloak only slipping out of the home as George charged in to the room. He held a dull blade in one hand and a candlestick in the other.

"Catherine?" he choked out as he scurried to his daughter's crumpled heap on the floor. Hot tears ran down her face that burned with anxiety and alcohol. She quickly clung on to George and gripped the back of his surcoat in a desperate white-knuckle grasp., "What on earth is the matter, sweetheart?"

"He was here," she stuttered out between sobs, "Robin Hood, he's real, and he knows where we live."

"Shush now, my darling, it's alright now," he thinly tried to assuage her while giving a hardened gaze out the window, "No one can get you now."


	5. Chapter 5

** Hello, all! Thank you for reading this tale – please remember to leave a review! **

"And he didn't take anything?" Gisborne asked skeptically from beneath a furrowed brow. A pair of lightly armored men milled around behind him but Catherine paid them little attention. Her hands still clung tightly to a lukewarm cup of barley tea.

"I don't know, it's not like I asked," she retorted after having to discuss her encounter for the third time in the last hour. Stars were puncturing the late-night sky and shimmering light on to the somber house.

"Nash, what's missing?"

"I'm not sure yet," George responded as he readjusted the blanket draped over his daughter's back. Gisborne scoffed and dramatically threw his hands up. Between fatigue and the grainy onset of a hangover his patience was transparently thin.

"You design plans for the Sherriff of Nottingham, find a known outlaw in your house, and you don't know what's gone? You don't fucking know?"

"My first priority is my daughter," George fiercely snapped back, "I will sort your business in the morning."

"My business? My business is the castle. My business is thinking that for two hundred crowns you might have a better plan than to leave your shit lying about for Robin Hood!"

"He had something, okay, but I don't remember, I don't know," Catherine piped up. Guy swallowed a hot chunk of pride and softened his tone for her.

"Paper? Did you hear parchment shuffling or…?"

"No, it was hard. When he… he pressed up against me and I thought he would… it was like one of those leather tubes you have, Dad. It was one of those."

"My most recent arch designs for the interior hall. The secure curtain wall to the new chamber was outlined and packaged to deliver in the morning," George nodded with sourness. Gisborne glared with fierce malice in to the architect. If looks could kill, this would have struck any mortal dead. The seething of his earth quaking stare down vacuumed the oxygen from the room.

"Anything else that's missing?"

"Faith… my Faith," Catherine muttered in a broken voice.

"I'm not the man you talk to about that sort of thing," Guy answered blankly.

"Faith is the name of my cat, I think she got spooked away."

"Of course it is."

"She's gray and has a green ribbon around her neck. Daddy, do you think Faith will come back?"

"Darling, I don't know. Let Sir Guy do his work and we can worry about the cat later," George dismissed her. He stepped over to the leather clad soldier, his ferocity matching his enemy although his height did not, "These plans are nothing to fret over. Really. I can design new turns, different advantages, no supplies have arrived for it yet so alterations can still be made. That information is useless already."

"I recommend you leave only useless information unsecured from now on."

"Ah, it's my fault is it? My daughter gets the life scared out of her and feels unsafe in her own home, but if I had put these packages of drawings in a locked drawer she would be fine? Do you have any idea what that monster could have done to her? Taken from her? This criminal you have left on the streets, Sir Guy, is the real unsecured threat," George spat. Guy instinctually gripped the hilt of his dagger and bit his tongue so hard it drew the tangy taste of blood; if it would solve anything at all he wouldn't hesitate to cut his blade in to Nash's flesh. His muscles screamed in adrenaline and begged to brawl, but he instead sucked the air through his teeth and let the blow wound his pride.

"You will discuss this with the Sherriff tomorrow."

Two days had passed since the burglary at the Nash cottage and Nottingham castle was on high alert. The stolen plans for an interior bunker were nothing more than the scribbles of an imagination, a trace in the wind, and they could not offer a way in to a room that did not yet exist. However, the Sherriff was obviously displeased about the intention even breaking loose and Gisborne couldn't agree more. It was never marked with any reference to the Black Knights, Nash was not even aware of such an organization, but the closer Robin Hood got the worse their outlook seemed. The most he could do to cheer himself up on this drizzly afternoon was announce some unfortunate fates at the gallows and brutishly reap his debts.

Gisborne felt nothing as the Sheriff halfheartedly recited decrees and legal jargon before cuing the executioners to get on with their duties. As the sounds of dropping floorboards and shocked spectators hit the air he did feel something; power. Guy had the literal authority over life and death, or at least he was the right hand of the authority. It was calming at least for a short while. After the entertainment most locals were quick to scurry home and out of the light rain, continuing their lives as if three men hadn't just had theirs viciously squeezed out by unforgiving rope. Gisborne's feet wasted no time pounding down the dusty roads of a gloomy Nottingham. Chilled droplets of rain misted in his onyx locks and clung to his neck. Unlike passersby who huddled beneath cloaks or bags, he didn't feel fragile enough to mind the weather. His attention was far too busy burning in anger over those who sleight him.

Vaisey, of course, was like a disease that lurked beneath his skin. Always present, always deep in his tissue, and always undermining his capabilities. The latest leak of information threw open the doors to a whole new onslaught of hurled insults and inadequacies that weighed on Guy's shoulders. To make matters worse, this smug ass architect took every opportunity to make jabs or quips low on the radar. He was employed by Gisborne and yet so without subservience or respect. He approached the doors of his target, a crippled bakery that looked as unhealthy as its owner, and stormed inside. He did not hesitate to allow his frustrations from other men to color his interaction with Martin Baker.

"Sir Guy," the sickly wheat worker nervously sputtered as he dashed to the front, "I wasn't expecting you –"

"I expected your 5 crowns yesterday," he sternly interjected with a stone face, "and I expect you will pay me now. With interest."

"You know I have been so sick, my lord, too sick to work, and my family…" Baker trailed off as he watched Gisborne strategically slice through all of his available product. Pies were jabbed open with messy wounds, loaves gashed, rolls disemboweled to crumbs; he would make no money today as a punishment for tardiness. The man in black hauntingly never broke eye contact as he assaulted the foodstuffs.

"Each day you avoid your taxes will be a day in the stocks and an extra crown."

"Sir-"

"Or shall I have to take a finger to remind you?" Gisborne spat with darkness. He glanced over to see a pair of older children, their clothes matted in flour, silently curled up beneath the shop counter. Their stares were far off in another world as they hoped to remain invisible. The youngest of the two held a ragged wooden crate in her lap filled with something that caught his eye, "Give me one of those, and you can keep your hopeless fingers until the end of the week. If you don't pay up by Sunday, it will be your hand."

"One of… You want one of those?"

"Do not give me time to change my mind."

"No, of course. Please, sir, take your pick. Any one you want. Hell, take the whole box," the baker sweated through his apron from both nerves and fever.

Gisborne inelegantly clawed in to the crate and took his prize, never breaking his glare at the flopping businessman.

"You have five days – use them wisely," he spat before stomping out the door. The aggression and sourness that pulsed through his veins felt normal; it wasn't pleasurable, and it wasn't ideal, but it was so common he was almost numb to the idea. He had forgotten what it felt like to not trudge through frustration with every step. With his delicate treasure in hand, however, he hoped this could quell the pent-up fire inside of him, even if only briefly. Guy set his sights, and his pace, on the Nash house.


	6. Chapter 6

** Please leave a comment after reading - I would love to hear from you! **

Gisborne's boots scuffed along the beaten path as he approached the squished residence of his detested designer. Much like his black leather jacket, the ominous blackthorn bush on the house front beaded with autumn rain. His pace slowed as he watched Catherine beneath it, sheltered from the drizzle by the awkward overhang of the top story addition. She was dutifully clearing paling leaves and dull blue berries that had dropped from the sprawling shrub, her stubby broom sweeping with vigor, golden hair held back with a linen kerchief. She was dressed in brown riding pants with a mid-thigh cut cobalt tunic after what must have been an earlier excursion. He was greatly uncertain of what had piqued his generosity and yet, he feared, he was entirely sure of it all at the same time.

Marian had carved out the shrunken remnants of his heart and left them to wilt and die on the floor of Locksley's church only two seasons ago. His chance of redemption, his compassion, his candidness with others all demolished in the flames of her disaster. Guy had every right to be bitter and full of angst. He clawed his way through numerous tribulations with her and had bent over backwards only to find miniscule morsels of kindness and authenticity; each bridge to his heart felt scorched and collapsed. He ignored this instinct inside his gut that said some spark existed in Catherine. He distracted himself from her intrigue with alcohol and ignorance. He manically raved to himself that she was just an extraneous acquaintance and yet he couldn't convince himself that it was the truth. With each deeper level of hatred Guy developed for George Nash he found a softening amnesty for Catherine. That softening, he knew, was weakness. It was interference. It was complicated and yet innate. As each quarrel with the architect increased the storm of his anger Catherine was a calm port, a sanctuary, where he could find no qualm. Perhaps, he feared, it was only a matter of time before even she betrayed him. But it did not change the fact that on this day he arrived at her doorstep.

"Miss Nash."

"Guy of Gisborne," she chirped in reply to his baritone voice, her back still to him. She bent down to discard the last stubborn foliage and Guy could not help but notice the alluring shape of her body. He did not even attempt to avert his gaze before scanning the way her trousers hugged the hourglass curve of her thighs and backside, his heart jumping in his chest with excitement. After a moment he sensed George's scowl from the window above them and reluctantly dragged his cool blue eyes from Catherine's figure to her father; in an act of dominance he displayed no shame and maintained a hard stare. Eventually George broke the eye contact with disgust. Catherine turned to face him with a light smile and waved Guy beneath the covering, "Come out of that rain, you'll be soaked. Oh my goodness, what have you got there?"

"I had hoped you would be in better spirits then the last time we spoke, but, to be sure I brought… this," he fumbled a bit with his words while slicing through the rain to meet the petite girl. A smirk tugged at his stubbled mug when her jaw dropped. She had eyes as blue as her tunic that doubled in size as she gingerly clutched the gift from his grasp. Catherine was gentle but giddy as she cradled the apricot colored kitten. She lit up like a small child and held the feline to her body while stroking his dampened fur.

"Oh, he's beautiful! I can't believe this! You brought him for me?"

"You said your cat had gone, so…"

"Oh, Faith came back," Catherine beamed while stroking the small animal, "she's alright."

"Oh," Gisborne's face fell flat and stony again, "Well then this was stupid."

"No! It wasn't! This is… so kind. I can't believe you went out of your way to find me another cat. I am so flattered to know you think of me. Well, not to assume that you do think of me but to know you, um…" Catherine backpedaled her words and nervously sighed, "I have found myself sometimes thinking, um, of you, but no, this kitten is, gosh he's precious. And so very appreciated. Faith will be happy to have a companion again! Our last cat met a less than desirable fate in Norfolk, so he will be treasured."

"Oh?" Guy's brain said on auto pilot. He was taken aback at what she had just said; Catherine was blushing and stammering at such a veiled confession. He sat stupefied as she desperately tried to change the subject.

"Yeah, it was quite sad."

"Let me guess, that one was named "Charity' or 'Pity?'" he joked. There was a moment of panic when he dreaded that it may have come across as too deadpan and cruel.

"No," she grinned with a small head shake, "Her name was Mercy. Which is a bit ironic because that wild dog showed her no shred of mercy when she died."

"Oh," he said again, his brain still imprisoned by Catherine's words.

"This one will be named Hope."

"… It's a male cat."

"Yes, and his name is Hope," she smiled while raising the small kitten above her. He was only length of both of her palms together and completely resigned to being coddled, "Would you like to come inside? My father is –"

"No, I did not come to see him," Gisborne shortly replied before sucking in a sharp breath, "I came only for… you. I must admit, Catherine, I… I do find myself thinking, sometimes, of…"

She had a tight and shy grin as his voice trailed off. Their blue eyes met and held a charge that neither could deny. The sudden wave of emotion made a fragile Gisborne feel boiled alive and he itched to retreat from her presence. His blood screamed through his veins and demanded that he abort this suicide mission immediately. To his fortune the front door of the Nash house swung open revealing a less than pleased George who nearly tore Catherine's arm off by the way he snatched her inside.

"Don't you have business to attend to somewhere?"

"Mister Nash… Miss Catherine," Guy nodded before turning away. The blonde girl had barely opened her mouth to say her goodbyes before the thick wooden door was slammed shut. She flinched while shielding the small and damp Hope to her chest.

"What in the hell do you think you are doing, Catherine?" George spat out, his brown eyes bulging in disbelief. His rantings and ravings about how unbelievable she was barely had a coherent thread as she chewed the inside of her cheek and exhaled.

"He brought me a cat. Why are you so afraid of a cat, Daddy? You're being ridiculous!"

"Me? Being ridiculous? Not the girl out here batting her eyelashes to a sex obsessed murderer?"

"What?"

"Oh, Catherine, don't play dumb. We both know the way these slimy men look at you is far from innocent, and you certainly don't put them off wearing such tight trousers –"

"So, this is all about my trousers, or?"

"You are forbidden to see him and that is final," George seethed with a finger in her face, "I thought I raised you with more sense than this. I have told you time and time again to stay away from these kinds of people, from these politicians and cretins."

"If they are so terrible, then why do you keep taking their money? Why do you do their work and help them with their goals if they're so despicable?" she countered with a raised voice. Hope took this opportunity to dash off under a near by oak chair, his small ears twitching in every direction at the ruckus.

"I don't do anything for them, I work with stone, arithmetic, style. My buildings help to stop senseless war by providing protection. Your wicked pal over there thirsts for the thrill of war! This Vaisey and Gisborne are just as bad as – no, worse than – these mercenaries and monsters who want nothing more than bloodshed. These people want to bring the chaos of the Crusades to England and you will have nothing to do with them!"

"Monsters? So the King is a monster now because he defends us in war?"

"You will not change this conversation, young lady."

"Why should I listen to you? Should I stop talking to everyone I know in that castle now? Sorry, Sarah," she gestured mockingly, "I can't talk to you at the squash stand anymore because you wash the linens of monsters. Sorry Mary, we can't walk through gardens anymore because you're looking at the flowers of monsters. Sorry, Elizabeth –"

"Enough!" George screamed as he slammed his fist to the wall. Catherine immediately snapped her mouth shut, but she could not shut off the spigot pouring anger through her body. Not only was her father a hypocrite, he was a paranoid control freak. After years of the same old song and dance she was beyond fed up.

"I have finally started to make friends here, Daddy. I don't care if you think that's unimportant; it matters to me. If we are leaving in four months' time then what does it matter whether I spend those months alone or with nice people? Friendly people who don't freak out over every step I take!"

"You are welcome to have friends, but not ones I disapprove of," he barked as Catherine rolled her eyes, "Now this Mary you have introduced me to and she was nothing less than polite. Guy of Gisborne, on the other hand, is beyond inappropriate for you to spend your time with."

"I am twenty-three years old and perfectly capable of choosing my company," she growled through gritted teeth. Her jaw was locked tighter than a jail cell and groaned with aches from the tension, "I am not a drawing on of piece of parchment, I am a person. You cannot design every detail of my life for me and you cannot sketch how I feel about people."

"I am your father, Catherine, and you're damn right I can do all of those things. You live in my house, little girl, and you will abide by my rules!" George found himself screaming up the staircase as Catherine stormed away. Searing hot tears were burning down her heart shaped face as she stomped purposefully to her room. As the door clicked shut her frustrations vented open. She found herself sobbing in rage at the overbearing chokehold of her father.

Faith sat perched at the foot of Catherine's bed, her round figure and sleek ash colored fur melting in to the black wool bedspread. The blonde curled up on the mattress, her face red with splotches of anguish and stroked the coat of her feline companion. How was she supposed to live with demands like this? If the tip of her shoe ever strayed remotely near the edge of George's flippant boundaries then she was a failed design, a poor concept, and had to be redrawn to his liking. Was she supposed to just smile for another year and willingly travel to London waiting for whatever husband he illustrated for her? Even if she fell madly in love with this unknown man, what were the odds that George would release her from his plans? She would always remain his creation to be manipulated as the needs of the design change. Perhaps even her spouse and children would suffer the same consequences. Catherine needed fresh air, a fresh perspective, a fresh start. After calming her breath, she shut her eyes and hoped sleep would at least temporarily take her away from this place. With one arm draped over her loyal Faith, Catherine shut out the rest of the afternoon in the vain hopes that, with any luck, her world would be different once she woke up.


	7. Chapter 7

Even in sharp daylight the interior of Nottingham castle was dark and treacherous; it felt perfectly fitting, George thought, for men of the same description. Chandeliers of black iron and dancing flames illuminated the temporarily deconstructed corridor as manual laborers exacted Nash's plans in the physical world. By the end of it all this chamber would be intentionally invisible to anyone roaming these halls and the entrance impregnable. George knew better than to ask for any explanations or reasonings for such dramatic rooms; he simply made it happen and collected the coin. He quite often felt pride at seeing his brain child sprawl out in to reality, but his forced company near Gisborne made this impossible. He felt sick with rage over the gall of this man. The soldier in black wisely kept his mouth shut, his ears and eyes glued to the conversation between the architect and the Sherriff, but dared not to interrupt his boss. Vaisey looked like a child on Christmas receiving a prized gift.

"If you really can make this," the Sherriff vaguely waved at the construction area, "in to this drawing I will be, dare I say it, impressed."

"It's coming along quite well, I don't see any reason that we can't be wrapped up by the anticipated deadline," George weakly smiled to a giddy Vaisey. He was only taller than the Sheriff but a couple of inches and made Gisborne feel like a giant in their company. With haste a faceless guard approached, his chainmail jangling to announce his arrival, and signaled Vaisey for an apparently urgent but quite undefined purpose. The leader of the county held up a pointer finger to briefly excuse himself before stomping away. Guy had been here long enough to know that he would come back in an even more sour mood than he departed with but could find little pleasure in his purgatorial wait with Nash. The men spent a fair amount of silence with crossed arms, their gazes in several directions, bitterness simmering. Eventually George broke the seal of the calm.

"What exactly do you think you are doing with my daughter?" He forcefully pressed, rolls of parchment tucked beneath his arm.

"I assure you, Mister Nash, I have done absolutely nothing with your daughter."

"Yes, well what are your intentions with her?" He continued. Guy took in a deep breath and rolled his neck, the urge to be pompous too overwhelmingly powerful to suppress.

"The things I intend to do with her are not things a gentleman would describe in decent company."

"Fuck you."

"Maybe she will," Guy spat with toxic spite. George threw his drawings to the floor and thundered up to him, a shiningly sharp compass brandished with readiness to become a weapon. This aggressive approach was matched by a quick reach for Gisborne's dagger hilt. With burning glares, the men silently dared the other to make a move.

"If you two are going to kiss, I can come back later," Vaisey pestered with a nasally tone.

"I cannot work with him any longer," George boomed as he stepped away, "he is beyond unprofessional and impossible to endure. It is unbearable to be trapped here with him."

"Ugh, yes, I couldn't agree more about Gisborne."

"My lord Sherriff, I will no longer tolerate Guy of Gisborne being sent to my home. Send any of your hundreds of men to collect works, to deliver coin, I don't care, just don't let it be him."

"Wow, I leave for less than ten minutes and we are already at this point, eh?"

"I will not have him harass my poor daughter any longer; if this wish cannot be granted then I have no more work to be done here," George rambled out quickly. The sadistic cloud that covered Vaisey's eyes was chilling. George took a breath and remembered the sort of men he was dealing with. One does not easily get away with such sensitive knowledge about a castle when one becomes an enemy. If he were to take a misstep in this fragile dance then his punishment would no doubt fall on an undesirable side of law, not to mention the inevitable brutishness he would face off the books.

"You are making me choose between the man I have had as my right hand for, gosh, years now," the Sherriff pondered aloud, "Or you, a traveling doodler who I have only known since the start of autumn," he theatrically weighed these options in his hands and rolled his eyes, "You are lucky I cannot stand my right hand."

"Sire I will have this work done for you, and it will be done well. Thank you," George graciously said as he watched the twitching of disgust on Guy's face; it was a lovely sight to see as he departed their company. Gisborne did not hide his foul mood when Vaisey suddenly whipped around to him.

"Do you have any idea how important this architect is to us?"

"My Lord, I'm the one who found him in the first place," Guy growled.

"Then why are your trousers suddenly so much more important than the legacy we are trying to build here?"

"Sire –"

"Let me make this clear: you need to keep your dick out of the way of my plans do you hear me?" Vaisey hissed as Gisborne struggled to reign in his temper; both men had veins bulging in their foreheads from contained screams.

"That is not what this is," he eventually replied with hushed assertion.

"Pray tell, Guy, what have you learned from your little fling with Marian, hmm? Did you not ignore my advice completely and continue to pursue such a useless distraction? Did you not feel the disease that ate away at you after being with that leper? Have you no shame, or dignity, or intelligence to go right back to another useless girl?" Vaisey leaned in to Guy with menace, "What I am building here is far more than some floozie can give you. You don't need sex and false promises of love, you need power; only I can give you that. The Black Knights here, in our castle, the legacy of overthrowing Richard, the prestige of being in Prince John's favor – can she give you any of that?"

"…No."

"No, I thought not." Vaisey growled in summation. He paced away quickly, his steps fueled by the frustration of having to repeat the same lesson to Gisborne all over again. He considered wrapping the man in horse blinders to prevent all of these unnecessary interferences in the future. Guy remained in place, his muscles set in stone, his heart sinking in to his stomach, his brain plummeting in to darkness. Vaisey was right, he was foolish to think anyone could be different than Marian. Every smile, every word, every move a woman makes was a strategic game meant to torment the minds of men. The cheap thrill of a blonde in his bed would be elating, but could it compare to finally reaching the culmination of his power and status? Guy had scraped along for years waiting to achieve this coup that was on the precipice. He could not become sidetracked now. He tightened his gloves and stormed back to the southern stairwell. He was a fool to become so unfocused. He had to keep his attention on one thing: glory, and that was not what Catherine had to offer.

Or was it? Could she offer something purer than the riches that come from gore and avarice? Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps she didn't even consider him seriously; after all, no one else seemed to. It could be futile to even be thinking that she could see him as interesting, and even if she did, was she genuine about it? The seeds that Vaisey had been sowing in Guy's brain were sprouting and he could not separate the weeds from his own thoughts. He always walked around angry with the mask of his persona facing the crowd, but that was not so with Catherine. Even if this budding interest was only a faint glimmer, he could not let the Sherriff extinguish it. Not without knowing for sure. Perhaps the looming anxiety in his stomach did know for sure, and the prospects weren't good, but what if they could be? Gisborne quickly made his way to his chambers and washed his face. He hoped to be able to dissect his cacophony of thoughts if his mind would just quiet, but he would find no such peace that night.


	8. Chapter 8

November had descended on England with a blanket of cruel temperatures, the air rarely daring to rise above eight degrees centigrade. Townsfolk were seen less in the streets and more so huddled around heated hearths and burning blazes that kept the encroaching winter at bay. The Nash's were no different on this morning; the family of two sat together in the main floor of their home and basked in the orange haze of the fireplace. A large and worn cauldron dangled over the flame, wafting the scent of simmering vegetable stew and offering a hushed bubbling sound in the background. George sat in silence poring over meticulous plans as he did most mornings with Catherine contently stitching her own designs on to handkerchiefs. Hers were no less intricate, their blush blossoms and tangling ivy borders reminiscing better seasons.

"I miss living on the water," she quietly spoke with distracted fingers. Her mind was far east of Nottingham on the shores of The Wash, a gorgeous bay back home in Norfolk. As a growing girl she adored its green lined coast dotted with white flowers and would hardly notice winter's whipping wind as long as she could gaze in wonder at the power and tranquility of the water. The ebb and flow of the tides were always regular, always entrancing, and always made her feel connected to the soil beneath her bare feet.

"In London you will see the river Thames – I'm sure you will enjoy it. It's not quite The Wash, but it will be all yours. You can raise your family along its banks," George said with a wistful look in his eye. He so enjoyed fantasizing about the future he had crafted for his child. Catherine was not bold enough to challenge this future, but just as she began to muster up the courage, a pounding came to their front door. It was frantic and loud, the banging making both inhabitants flinch at first. Catherine flew from her seat with a sense of the urgency; such an exhibition surely meant a mortally wounded or terrified person was desperately waiting on the other side. She opened the door about halfway before Guy of Gisborne shoved an arm in and slammed it open. He did not bother to look at her before storming inside with clenched fists and fire in his eyes.

"What in hell have you done?" he screamed at George with a gloved finger in his face, "Do you have any idea what you have cost us? I will have your skin you son of a –"

"How dare you come in here like this?" The architect bellowed back, their livid voices overlapping and accomplishing nothing, "You will leave my house immediately! We have done nothing –"

"Bullshit!"

"Hey!" Catherine shouted in to the discord with to no avail. She jumped in and grabbed Gisborne's hand away from her father. He jerked away from her touch and spat poison in his glare, the toxicity stopping her heart for a moment. Perhaps she was wrong each time she defended him, perhaps he was capable of the atrocities that swarmed in rumors.

"What in the hell makes you think you can come in here and attack me like this? You cretin!"

"You're telling me it's a major surprise that all of your supplies have gone missing in the night?" Gisborne's tone was a blade as he raised in eyebrows, "That the shipment you insisted to organize yourself with your own contacts magically vanishes along the road? You want me to believe this shit is in fairy land and you had nothing to do with it?"

"What? That's several dozen pounds worth of timber."

"That's exactly the problem," Guy spoke slowly as if explaining it to a dense moron.

"It takes several men and carts to transport, how on earth does somebody steal a thing like that?"

"You're going to tell me exactly how you managed it," Guy roared as he tossed his gloves to the side and began tapping a set of knuckle dusters on the table, "and I will give you one chance to tell me the truth."

"He doesn't know anything!" Catherine interjected. She stuck her short frame between the quarreling men and was hardly noticed by the attack dog of the castle.

"You arranged this transport, George, and it's gone. Where the fuck is it?" He began screaming as Nash verbally brawled back. Catherine's nerves began to fray and explode in anxiety as the scene unfolded before her. Foolishly George began to shove Guy, which could only end one way. Gisborne dealt an exacting punch to his foe before little Catherine thrusted him to the door herself. Her stature was petite but with adrenaline she was mighty, even if only in courage, and managed to get both Guy and herself out the door.

"What the bloody hell is the matter with you?" she shrieked to him in the cold. Her rabbit fur vest offered little protection from the elements, but her blood ran so hot with disappointment and shock that she didn't notice. A steely glare still came from the man in black.

"Your father demanded to oversee this shipment himself, there is no way that's a coincidence –"

"How dare you?" she replied in a quieted tone, one that struck much more emotion than a shout.

"How dare you get your ass in my way and speak to me like this? I ought to teach you a lesson, little girl," he growled while stepping toe to toe with her, his height and broad shoulders drowning her with menace. The determined blonde stood her ground.

"You have no evidence that my father is guilty and yet you accuse him of something so –"

"And what about you?"

"Excuse me?"

"You have been in the same room as Robin Hood, given him papers –"

"I gave him nothing! I was attacked!" she defended with exasperation.

"A likely story," Gisborne snarled, "One I almost bought. You think you can come to Nottingham and pull wool over my eyes, but you can't, Catherine. You are a liar. If you are an accomplice to an outlaw, you will pay the price." She prepped her hand in instinct to slap him across the face but Guy was too quick; he clenched her by the wrist and never broke sturdy eye contact. Her blue eyes began to well up with tears and he sneered at what he perceived to be a ploy for pity. Silence deafened them for several seconds. Every whisper of paranoia bounced between his neurons and tightened his grip; Vaisey's plantings had come to harvest

"You're hurting me," she whimpered. Guy glanced to his hand that trapped her and was shocked to see just how rough he was being. His knuckles were white and her hand trembled from more than just the cold. After an eternal moment his consciousness seemed to snap out of its slumber and bring sense back in to his bones. Guy released her hand very suddenly and had a flash of confusion wash over his face.

"Catherine, I…" he stammered as she scampered back to her home. She didn't bother to acknowledge him again before locking her and her father away in the safety of their dwelling.

Malevolent thorns scraped along the wall from the front bush and made Gisborne realize just how quiet things had gotten after his screaming match. His brute strength is exactly what made him a coward; his terror at having this project derailed ignited his temper. The overwhelming uncertainty he faced morphed in to recklessness. The fragile relationship he was fostering with Catherine collapsed under his paranoia and obsession for control. The Sherriff had caused him to panic and doubt any authenticity for the feelings he harbored. Guy ran his hands through his thick hair and groaned. It was not Vaisey's fault, nor Catherine's; the blame fell solely on his shoulders. He believed that no one could harm him as long as he severed any emotional attachment to others. What a pathetic defense – it left him open to consistent self-harm and crippling isolation. With his tail between his legs Guy of Gisborne retreated to the looming castle on the horizon, his guts rotting with remorse. When, he wondered, would things finally go his way?

Catherine continued to hold a cool wet cloth to her father's temple as he spouted his arguments in a one-sided match. She removed the linen to examine the damage and winced to see plum and scarlet tones erupting under his skin.

"He's a goddamn animal," George raved, "A lunatic!"

She said nothing as she got up to wring out the cloth. At the end of the table she noticed something out of place; Gisborne's gloves. They sat on the corner radiating malice and cruelty even in their crumpled state. Catherine did not want to see them and relive the assault on her father. She snapped them up and shoved them at the back of the drawer where she withdrew a dry handkerchief and dabbed the corners of her eyes. She would shut away those gloves, this day, that man, even if it took all of her strength not to cry.


	9. Chapter 9

"No, we won't have it."

"But sir… it's a delivery. You can't really just say no."

"I will not have any such thing in this house," George coolly replied with conviction. He began to slowly shut his home's front door as the guard's face screwed up in confusion. Beneath his hardened helmet his eyes darted back and forth as if waiting for this reaction to be called out as a prank.

"I am instructed to give this to Miss Nash," he pressed, taking one step closer to the barred threshold.

"I am her father and I will not have her taking such things!"

"Daddy, what is going on down here?" Catherine appeared at the top of the stairs with Hope tucked blissfully in her arms. The burnt orange stripes that streaked his fur matched his owner's pumpkin shaded kirtle.

"Nothing, darling, go back to your sewing."

"Miss Nash," the guard spoke around George, "I've been instructed to bring you this gift."

"Gift?" she chirped with enlightened eyes. She floated down the stairs with mystery on her mind; the only people she had truly connected with in Nottingham were vegetable vendors and some of the female staff in the castle who bought from said vegetable vendors. She was excited by the prospect of broccoli bushels or packages of peas, but couldn't imagine why they would come.

"Sir Guy of Gisborne insisted it be delivered this morning."

"Sir Guy?"

"Catherine will not be accepting this," George insisted as he pressed the box back towards it's carrier, "and I suggest you tell your master –"

"Daddy, please." She cut him off with a huff. Her father turned to leer at her, the purple mist of bruising clinging around the curve of his eyebrow. Twenty-four hours after Gisborne's strike George's flesh was bursting with vibrancy. Catherine reached past him and graciously accepted the package, a rectangular wrapped parcel, from the guard's gloved hands.

"Is there a message I should return to Sir Guy?" he inquired while pretending not to notice the daggers shooting from George's deep brown eyes. Catherine glanced down at the packet and after a moment shook her head.

"No. Thank you."

"Ma'am," the courier nodded before clanking away, his yellow and black sleeves the only color on their bleak street. George wasted no time before berating his child.

"This is my house, Catherine and if I say no to something then that is final! Nothing would take the smug look off of Gisborne's mug like sending whatever this is back. Have you already forgotten the way he attacked me? Attacked our home?"

"So, because he behaved with zero propriety yesterday, I should have no manners today? I don't like any of what happened either, Dad, but I was raised to be respectful." She narrowed her eyes and shut down his attacks. Catherine ran her finger along the twine that wrapped the parcel and gingerly removed a folded piece of paper from behind the string. She felt George's gaze upon her, the weight of a dozen men in his stare, and stuck the paper back in to its place. She crossed her arms and folded her package to her chest before sauntering back to the staircase.

"Open it here – let's have a look," George ordered. Catherine stared directly at him in silence before taking brisk strides to her bedroom. Her father hotly pursued this defiance, one hand running through his thinning honey shaded hair and the other slapping the oak door she had slammed between them, "Catherine!"

"It wasn't sent here for you!" she sassed as she plopped on to her hay stuffed mattress.

Faith, who was occupying her usual spot at the foot of the bed, cocked her head up in annoyance at the disturbance. The cat soon reposed lazily again as Catherine nervously pulled the slip of parchment from the box. She glanced up to the bedroom door her father was spitting curses at and then back to her own private mystery. She gently unfolded the two creases. _I hope you will accept my apologies_ , it read in onyx shaded ink. Catherine set the note to her right, her stomach feeling quite hesitant to consider any request for forgiveness. She was careful to unwrap the twine and packaging without damage. Faith did not bother to show any interest as the curiosity inside her owner's stomach bubbled. Catherine pulled back the unassuming wrapping to reveal a pair of goat leather gloves, gorgeous in their construction and rich in their materials. A smile found its way to her lips. They were a lovely cream color with an exquisite silk thread tassel that announced their high cost. Clearly, he had spent more than a few ha'pennies, but could it really undo all that had been done yesterday? Catherine stroked the soft shell of the gloves but could not bring herself to slip them on; it felt too dirty, too forgiving. She secured them back in their wrapping and hid them beneath her bed, Faith yet again showing disdain for movement of the mattress.

Biting the inside of her cheek, she felt restless and unsure of where to go from here. Luxurious gloves, Hope – surely these tokens meant something, but so did a violent shouting match between Gisborne and her father. Could one act annul the other? If so, which was victorious? Catherine dressed in her sable shaded cloak without much more of a plan. She was quick to hop down the steps and was glad to see George nowhere in sight. He would be sure to interrogate her about the package, her destination, her intentions; she knew as little about it as he did. Emotions and thoughts were muddled in her mind and she knew it had to be discussed though she knew not what to say. With secrecy she snuck to the credenza and reached to the back of the linen drawer to remove Guy's abandoned black gloves. They had been left the previous day after the ferocious sparring match and were recalled to Catherine's mind after seeing her new ones. It was an even trade, she told herself, and only fair that she should return what was his. With a heavy breath she was out the door and into the biting frost of winter, her slim hands immediately fumbling for her own gloves from her cloak pocket. They were not nearly as regal as her goat skin gift, but still respectably fashionable for someone with a comfortable lifestyle.

Catherine whipped along the unevenly cobbled roads to the looming castle of Nottingham, its newly rounded towers casting a watchful gaze at every angle. Her fur trimmed hood blocked both the sharp wind and her peripheral vision as she decisively approached the gate. Three guards, two with halberds and one with a broadsword, stood a careful watch. They must have been freezing to death in metal, she thought, but they dared not show it.

"Good morrow," she greeted with an almost shivering smile, "I have come to see Guy of Gisborne."

"For what purpose?"

"I came to return these," she said fretfully while slipping out the black gloves, "my, um, hands aren't nearly this large."

"Right," the patrolman replied apathetically. Catherine felt her ears burn as her joke fell flat. The helmeted guard nodded to his comrade on the other side and granted her access, raising her nerves simultaneously with the latticed gate. In the four blocks it took to reach the castle she felt sure that this would provide some sort of closure or clarity, but now that she was on his territory regret chewed away in her chest. The wind made Nottingham feel near freezing, but Catherine could swear she was beginning to sweat in her palms. The sentry wielding the broadsword broke from his mates and led her across the vast courtyard and up the entry steps, pausing briefly as two more gentlemen tugged open the massive doors to let her in. As the thick timber sealed them inside Catherine felt slightly claustrophobic and trapped. What the hell did she think she was going to say to him, anyways? That would have been nice to have planned by now, she thought. They laced through two hallways before emerging onto a path that overlooked the courtyard, the cutouts leaving ample opportunity for winter's wickedness to reach them. As the pair turned yet another corner Catherine felt her heart freeze momentarily at the sight of Gisborne. His back was to them, his posture broad and demanding in whatever conversation was occurring between himself and the jailer.

"My lord," her escort cut in, "I beg your forgiveness. This young woman requested you by name."

"Miss Nash," Guy turned on his heel with a shocked expression, "Leave us… both of you."

Neither man bothered to linger as he waved them off. Catherine stood shyly, the vigor from her journey to the gate evaporated, and tucked her hands deeper into her pockets. Gisborne wore a small smirk as he stepped closer to drink in the unexpected sight. The round cheeks of her heart shaped face glowed red in the cool air, the brown fur trim of her hood bristling in the breeze.

"This is a pleasant surprise," he told her softly, "come inside where you'll be warm."

"No, that's alright thank you, I will only be a minute," she replied with a tight smile before revealing his gloves, "I just thought you may want these back."

"You're very kind."

"Yes, well… alright," Catherine sighed as he retrieved the gloves from her. She turned to leave, but was stopped as he grabbed her gently by the wrist.

"Did you receive my gift?"

"Yes, thank you."

"You're not wearing them," Gisborne noted with a degree of annoyance, his focus on the sable gloves she sported. He swallowed a hot piece of hurt pride at this, the urge to reprimand this sleight bubbling beneath his skin.

"No, I'm not." Catherine slipped her hand carefully away from his and spun away again. After only one step he took a wide stride and blocked her path. Guy was careful not to approach her in a malicious way; it seemed to her like a desperate school boy clinging to the conversation.

"Will I see you tomorrow for Martinmas? My manor in Locksley will be having a great feast – I'm sure you would enjoy it."

"I probably shouldn't," she quietly answered while looking down to the floor and stepping around him, her shorter legs having a less impressive sweep. His neurons began firing on all cylinders and screamed to capture her before she was lost forever. Logically he knew, of course, that she would be just down the road, but anywhere away from him seemed like an infinite abyss that would steal her away for eternity.

"Have you at least accepted my apology?" Gisborne asked, the deep tone of his voice nearly masking the sheepishness. Catherine twirled back to him, opened her mouth to speak, and promptly shut it again. After a cavernous breath she tried again.

"Apologies are for mistakes, like drinking too much or forgetting something; but assaulting my father? Scaring the hell out of me with that look…" she trailed off for a moment before capturing her breath, "How does a note take that back? Friends are meant to forgive each other, but to forgive something so grievous, I don't know. I just… I don't know."

"Friends? You think of me as your friend?" he furrowed his brow and stepped closer to her again as she shook her head.

"I'm sorry. That was rather presumptuous of me; I, um, I think I just misinterpreted… things."

"Catherine –"

"Forgive me. It's just… you gave me Hope," she explained as his heart fluttered before realizing she meant the cat and not the intangible sensation, "and he made me think, perhaps, that you were a friend. I can be a bit of a silly girl, as my father says, and maybe it's just best that we continue to be acquaintances."

"Let me be perfectly clear – I have no interest in being your friend," Guy stated with a small shake of his head before gingerly taking her hand, "I would like to be much more than that."

Catherine locked eyes with him and felt concrete fill her lungs. In her flesh it felt so right and exciting to hear, but in her mind, she still waged a war of reason. She left her hand securely in his for a long moment. She fantasized about wrapping her arms tightly around him and agreeing – the thought of such a romance titillating, and the thought of her father's reaction enticing. Ultimately, though, she could not escape the knowledge that this was not George's plan for her.

"I should go," she eventually responded with a reluctance that broke both of their hearts. Guy could not make himself move as Catherine silently departed. By the time she had escaped to the gate he considered flexing his authority and locking down the compound to keep her, but that wouldn't be right. He felt ashamed to watch her vanish through the threshold and back into the abyss of the town. He felt furious at her hurtful dejection. He felt naked and wounded after such a dangerous confession; no amount of money in England could take those words out of the air and seal them away to secrecy. Gisborne felt a damn fool. He stomped coldly back to Nottingham's infamous dungeons to take up the jailer's previous request of expedited interrogations. If Catherine could not make him feel strong, the balance of a man's fragile life in his hands certainly could.


	10. Chapter 10

The advent fast was on the precipice; a time of penance, minimalism, and piety. It was hard to believe, however, by the view of England on this day. Towns and villages were ignited in revelry and celebration of Martinmas, their spirit defying the cold of November, the jubilation and feasts enough to propel them into a new year. Today the people of Locksley enjoyed the fruit of their harvest and the meat of this year's herds in a festive gathering. Garlands and ribbons strung out across the village and rustled with a cool wind, the music and laughter of entertainment dancing between the hovels.

Gisborne usually didn't enjoy these types of celebrations – or rather, he did not allow himself to, and this year was no different. He always felt obligated to play the same role at a party that he did at the castle; he was a surveyor, an enforcer, a stationed soldier. If he dared to crack a smile or partake in a dance then surely none of his serfs would find a speck of respect for his authority the next day. Chaos would inevitably ensue if he were to cast aside his tough leather shell, he feared, and so Guy spent the morning the same way as usual: alone. Seated in his manor's great hall behind trays of lavish food and surrounded by exuberant celebrants he was utterly alone. In an itch of his perpetual discomfort Gisborne filtered out to the road where dozens of locals were scattered.

Locksley was bright with activity as jugglers and clowns amused groups near the church and children shouted with glee playing along the line of forest brush. Several women huddled in groups to keep warm and undoubtedly spread the fire of gossip while their men cheered each other with flagons of October ale in their burly grips. Guy warmed himself with his own strong beer and moseyed to the archery competition near the communal oven. A cluster of about twenty hopeful young lads were queued up around two hay bales with wooden targets affixed, their frost numbed hands fidgeting their bows in hope to emerge victorious. Gisborne always felt a magnetic draw to any event with competition, the primal itch for dominance and superiority a natural attractor. He was also unsurprisingly quick to criticize any contestant; some foolishly forgot to exhale before releasing while others suffered poor quality of weapons that resulted in stray shots. He was certain that his many more years of experience could defeat any of these chaps.

Guy found his attention diverted when, across the archery field, he found a familiar face. Catherine was laughing warmly as she carried on a conversation with George, her words too far away to hear, but her presence stopping his heart with no problem. He felt conflicted in his glee. The fact that she had even come to Locksley after their icy encounter the day before sprang a naïve flow of hope inside his veins, but the presence of her father lent a shadow of trepidation. Their fisticuffs at the architect's home was not one of Gisborne's finest moments of late. Like a hunter tracking his mark, he kept a watchful eye on the way she moved and smiled, her little waves to some passersby giving him amusement. She was beautiful with large blue eyes and flowing blonde curls, small braids along the crown of her head and a fur lined cloak in sharp crimson. She struck his attention physically, but her mannerisms were just as appealing. Catherine had a habit of speaking freely, and not in the same detrimental and annoying way the Marian did. Lady Knighton was sure that the world craved her opinion and that she was inevitably being charitable by sharing her magnificent thoughts. Catherine Nash, however, was like no one he had met in Nottingham. She spoke whatever thought popped into that pretty little head of hers and could always find a small joke or smile in any conversation. She did not aim above her station to discuss politics nor was she dull enough to remain quiet. She gave little grins with a crinkled nose to acquaintances who passed and made Guy ache to be given one, too. As she turned more to the side he was overjoyed to notice the cream goat leather gloves that wrapped around her wine goblet, their silk tassels dangling from each wrist. Against his better judgment, he knew he had to see her.

George's eyes were the first to meet Gisborne's on his approach, their deep brown kindling with disdain. His fair colored hair was thinning and threatening to recede along his slightly worn visage, but he still had plenty of vigor in his glare. As a painfully alpha male Guy did not break this firm eye contact until approaching his target.

"Sir Guy," George was the first to speak but without enthusiasm. The scarlet markings on his facial hematoma were dulling into mustard and plum mists on his skin. Gisborne did not feel a single pang of guilt for bruising him with a punch. Catherine turned and immediately granted his wish; she wore a bright smile and looked up into his face with authentic happiness.

"Oh, hello! I was hoping we would run into you today."

"Miss Nash… Mister Nash," Gisborne barely gave the courtesy of a flickering glance to George before watching his daughter. It added to the list of reasons that the designers blood boiled in disgust, "I came to ask for the pleasure of your company this afternoon."

"That's very kind," she bashfully blushed before looking to her father, whose response was obvious, "I was actually hoping to have a word with you." She gave a meek smirk to George before allowing the Lord of Locksley to lead her away. They travelled in silence to the other end of the archery range and watched the arrows carefully, both of them too timid to initiate a conversation. Catherine slowly wound her wine glass around in her hands before speaking.

"I've not been to Locksley before; your land is beautiful."

"Thank you. You will have to come around more often."

"Perhaps."

"I see you did receive my gift after all."

"Yes," she flexed her fingers slightly in the new flashy gloves, "They are gorgeous. I'm very grateful; my father… not as much."

"I find that business does not lend itself to friendship."

"On the topic of friendship," Catherine began before an excruciating hesitation. Guy's cool blue eyes immediately snapped from the contest to her pale face. The chill in the air was piquing at her skin and blushing it a bit pink. They both felt the hammering of their hearts against their sternums, hormones and anxiety swirling in a toxic concoction, "I have thought about what you said."

"And?"

"I would like that, too," she grinned as a piercing arrow struck dead into the bullseye. Gisborne's gaze did not flinch from her face; she bit her lip before turning to see his somewhat shocked expression. Clapping spectators and cheers did not register inside of his brain as each neuron searched for any way to panic. Perhaps her feelings were falsified, maybe he was the butt of a cruel joke, or he even could have foolishly misheard her. But her expectant smile quelled these fears for the time being.

"Catherine –"

"Locksley, here stands your champion! Anthony Thatcher!" proclaimed the contest official as several locals offered congratulations, "Mister Thatcher, well done. As promised, here is your prize from the lord of the land…"

His voice trailed off as the crowd expectantly waited on Gisborne's acknowledgement, but his focus was entirely wrapped up in his companion. She had just invited his courtship for God's sakes, couldn't the thatcher's kid wait? He absently mindedly fumbled the prize bag of crowns from his belt and tossed them vaguely towards the winner. It all seemed fairly anticlimactic and yet Guy could not have felt any more alive. Every nerve and sense in his body was alight. With an air of rigidity and awkwardness he flicked his head to the side and invited Catherine around closer to the half-timbered manor house. She followed him obediently, her height one head shorter than Gisborne's. What she lacked vertically she more than made up for in presence and vivaciousness. Guests were filtering in and out of the home to the buffet as he led her to the side of the building. They passed under an arch and came to the wooden stables, each apartment occupied by a blanketed and patient horse. Ivy crept along the cream wall of the manor and draped over a few wooden benches. Catherine approached one of Locksley's resident onyx stallions, watching as his warm breath came out as puffs in the winter air.

"He's stunning."

"He's kind of an ass."

"Oh, is that why you two get on so well?" Catherine retorted with a jokingly raised eyebrow, "I'm sorry, that came across quite rudely."

"It's fair after the way I behaved at your father's house – I really am not proud of losing my temper."

"We all have flaws… my father's kind of an ass, too."

"Yes, well," Gisborne clicked his tongue and wouldn't dare to contradict her, "What about you?"

"Me?" she turned and crossed the dirt walkway to sit on a low bench, "I'm a bit of a brat."

"Is that right?" Guy joined her with a respectable amount of space between their knees, "I couldn't picture that. Never. Couldn't be. There's no way. Impossible –"

"Alright, you!" she laughed and swatted his chest, her pale gloves slapping the leather of his thick jacket. Although her touch was a gesture of jest he felt a buzz of excitement, "Gosh it's nice to be out of Nottingham – always bustling, crowded, gray. I love being out here."

"Have you always lived in a township?"

"No, only when I was young, and again for the past few years. Feels like forever, though. I spent a few years on a manor when I was a girl. My father had just started traveling for work and left me to serve with Lady Ellis – gosh, she was fabulous. I always dreamed I would grow up to be like her. She inherited her land just minutes from the shore and talked about how much she missed and adored her husband every day. I would run out on the craggy coast, always barefoot, and dream about raising dozens of children there with a handsome husband," Catherine paused and looked away with a nervous chuckle, "Well, that's a lot to say to a man in the beginning, isn't it? I'm sorry. Sometimes I get a bit nervous and the words just won't stop, like now – I'm still talking, aren't I?"

"That's quite alright. Like I told you before, I'm more of a listener," he calmly replied with a smirk, "Hard to picture you as a server."

"Oh, I'm the best. You wish you could afford me," she grinned as Guy let out a full laugh. Damn, he thought, it felt good to laugh with her. The flash of his smile made the butterflies in Catherine's stomach fizzle. As they fell quiet the haunting sound of distant celebrations came on the wind.

"When I was young, I used to climb around the trees barefoot. I told myself it would make it easier to get higher up, but the only thing it got me was several cuts and cross parents," he reflected into the last drops of ale in his mug.

"You'd think we would have learned our lesson after the second or third time of trying to put on shoes with sliced up feet!"

"No, not me. Too stubborn. I was positive that was the only way to reach the top and see above all the houses and trees… Now I'm the one prattling on," he muttered a bit sheepishly.

Gisborne could not describe what urge had nudged him to open up his memory banks and share himself with her. He felt a reluctance to speak and yet simultaneously needed to communicate. These were not grandiose or life changing ideas, and yet he ached to let her in. Catherine was the only person who had ever wanted to know him, and he would not let the opportunity go to waste. She may find him dull, or horrific, or offensive, but she could never do worse than Marian had at the altar. Or could she? Catherine shivered slightly from the wind and rested her hand on his forearm with a reassuring look. How did she always seem to see his soul and know what he needed in that moment? Guy returned the touch by gingerly brushing a curl from her face, his gloved fingers taking their time to stroke down her cheek. It was a shame he could hardly feel her skin through such thick gloves.

"Catherine!" called George, his body bravely blocking the archway along the side of the manor, "It's about time I found you. You have no business sneaking off like this."

"Daddy, relax," she stood with a huff, "we were just discussing the horses –"

"Ah yes, I'm sure. What are their names, then?"

"Why don't you ask them yourself?" Catherine sassed as Guy let a small chuckle fall out from his lips. George venomously stared into the couple and took his daughter by the wrist.

"There is a reason, Sir Guy, I will not have you around our home any longer, and I don't think it's appropriate for you to take advantage of my child by dragging her off to alleyways like some cheap prostitute."

"Oh please," she rolled her eyes. Gisborne looked to his left and to his right as a few patrons and stable boys shuffled around them.

"This is my land, Nash. I will do as I please; and as Catherine pleases," he said as his voice became pressed like steel.

Unimpressed the architect shuffled away with his daughter, her blue eyes turning to see the man in black one last time before vanishing. She gave him a tender wave goodbye with gloved hands that swelled his chest with pride. Guy of Gisborne would think about that wave, that smile, that laugh, all through the evening and even in his dreams. The only thing better would be the next time he was graced by Catherine's presence.


	11. Chapter 11

Over the next fortnight Catherine made it her mission to see Gisborne at every glimpse possible. At each affair the castle held she was certain to snake over to his side at some point, their flirty banter drawing curious stares and whispers. Marian found herself shuffling in discomfort each time Catherine would gaze up at him with a sense of wonder; she too had been on Gisborne's arm and, while she admired certain qualities of his, she had never found herself in awe of him. She did not strike Marian as a dumb girl, in fact the few snippets of conversation they had proved otherwise, but she could not wrap her head around this infatuation. She found herself in the curious position of worry on Guy's behalf; she had discarded him in a very public and shameful way but could not bear to see it happen to him again. Whether driven by guilt or kindness Marian kept a watchful eye on whatever was developing between the couple's knowing glances.

If anyone in the castle was cautious, however, it was Nash. As his grip on his daughter seemed to lose strength he was scrambling to assert his authority. Catherine had always been a clever and charming girl, but never so divergent and neglectful of his wishes. Nottingham seemed to be rotting her. The tensions around the castle were a thick smog whenever he and Gisborne were forced to be in each other's presence, which had begun to pique even Vaisey's negative attention. The silliness had to stop. George had successfully intercepted roughly a third of the gifts Gisborne showered her with, but this was clearly not enough. They had only been trapped in this county for two and a half months and yet Catherine naively went about this craze as if her destiny had arrived; she had stitched together her own silly tokens and hummed ballads of courtly love as she did her duties in the home. George was sick of it.

He was particularly disgruntled at seeing his daughter enter the castle piazza on this morning, her woolen hat and cloak gobbling her up in the snow crusted terrain. Nash excused himself from his team of builders and darted down a set of stairs before intercepting his child in a dark stone hallway.

"You have no business here with Gisborne," he called to her as she approached, wind whipped mustard cloak flecked with snow.

"You're right, I don't," she answered shortly before producing a bag from beneath her protective gear, "I've come for you. You left some of your tools at home, a compass, whatever these other things are."

"You're a kind girl with a good heart," he smiled before kissing her forehead, "and I'm sorry if you think I have been making your life difficult of late. In three months, we will be in London, my dear, and you can have everything your heart desires."

"What if I don't like it there, Daddy? I don't want to keep moving around with no home or family of my own."

"This is our last stop. Just be patient. Everything you want will be in London."

"Everything you want, perhaps," Catherine muttered into her cloak as she readjusted the neck of it. Her father's cold stare was predictable.

"I will be going there at the end of this year to make some preparations. I will be sure to find exactly what you like, darling. Right on the water, near plenty of markets, and a successful merchant for you to start your family with."

Catherine painted on a cellophane smile and accepted that her words would not be heard. Perhaps, even worse: they were heard but vetoed for her father's version of events. She felt her organs torn with indecision and split allegiances. She loved George so dearly and desired to be a daughter he could have pride in, but he could make it so damn difficult. On the other hand, she had Guy, her first romance and a man with more than she could have ever dreamed: Lord of Locksley, Earl of Huntington, in favor with Prince John. If that wasn't a future then what was? How could her father so blindly be missing this opportunity that was put before them? Catherine did not want a stiff old merchant in London who could give her a home on the Thames. She craved the man who made her laugh over a bottle of Burgundy, the man who held a hard order in his county but a soft touch for her, the man who made her feel like she was a special prize worth fighting for. Catherine just had to figure out how to get her father to come around.

She retraced her steps back to cobbled streets that crunched with veiled frost, her mind on the mountain of laundry that awaited at home. If the weather was so determined to stay cold, how was she meant to dry anything without it stiffening into an icy mockery of her efforts? She had just crossed under the portcullis, arms tightly crossed to keep out the chill, when a trio of Nottingham's soldiers approached on horseback at a quick clip. They were led by Gisborne who waved Catherine down before slipping across the threshold to the safety of the castle. A paddy wagon slowly lurched along behind them and rolled through the gate as Catherine expectantly peeked back around the portcullis opening. Guy had disembarked his muscular horse, one that she distinctly recalled was by all accounts an ass, and said little to the stable boy before barking instructions for the prison coach that approached. As the wagon of ill-fated criminals rolled past her she tried to best the curiosity that demanded she peek inside. Before Catherine could fall to temptation Gisborne met her at her side, tugging his gloves tighter and sniffing at the wind.

"May I say that it's a welcome surprise to see you here?"

"I don't know, Sir Guy, because then I would have to tell you that I'm glad to have seen you, too," Catherine grinned at him before glancing back to the unloading of prisoners behind him, "Busy morning?"

"Just a few criminals who tried to skip town – didn't get too far. A sweet girl like you shouldn't worry about the likes of them."

"Perhaps, but if I am to feel safe in my own town then I must admit seeing full paddy wagons does not seem encouraging."

"Those men will never see this town again, they will never see you, nor harm you," Guy said with reassurance before nervously rolling his words around in his mouth, "You know, Catherine, no matter how many carts I can fill with outlaws the world is not safe, particularly for an unmarried woman walking alone."

"I was just returning home after seeing my father."

"I intended to visit at your home today; I had wanted to gift you something," he said before handing over a small velvet bag. Catherine shook her head with a bashful smile, curls flouncing from the motion, before retrieving the gorgeous black brooch from its wrapping.

"I have told you before that this is unnecessary. You don't need to sneak around twice a week to bring tokens – you already have my attention," she told him while proudly pinning the brooch to her shawl as he folded his arms in the breeze. The scent of smoke and fresh bread wafted along the castle walls.

"I would like to think that in time, perhaps, I could have more than just your attention," he said with a low voice. If she didn't know better, Catherine would swear his tone sounded a bit shy.

"Guy-"

"I find myself thinking that… if I may speak plainly?" he looked to her with a gravity that twisted anxiety through her stomach.

She nodded and followed the man in black as he paced along the path, searching in hope for a quiet place to have a discussion that did not include the gaze a dozen armor clad guards. Gisborne snaked her along the castle's curtain wall until they were nestled behind an unmanned cloth shop. Sheets of rich plum, pumpkin, and periwinkle linen flapped around in the cool morning air while he gathered in a breath of composure.

"Your father is, through all of his faults, an efficient worker. We have only had one delay and he is certain that he can resolve his need here by the end of February."

"Yes," Catherine looked quizzically side to side without the courage to ask why that had to be said in private.

"He seems to have secured work on a defensive moat at the Tower of London for King Richard in two months' time. What do you plan –"

"I don't want to talk about London," she adamantly stated before crossing her arms and looking back down the lane.

"Catherine… you also have my attention. But what value does that have if you plan to leave? If you are going to the other side of the country then I cannot allow myself to be so… distracted."

"It's not like I want to go," she vented with frustration, her foot stomping in distress, "do you think I enjoy starting my life over twice a year? Having to find a new home, a new county, new friends, a new Sherriff to dance around before figuring out his laws and dislikes? I am appalled to be twenty-five years old and still a maiden; no children, no home of my own. And it's not for my lack of desire, it is for the sake of my father's ridiculous plans; he manages me like a schematic, not like a person. I do not want to talk about London because I want to pretend for just a little longer that I have a life in Nottingham."

Catherine turned away from him and feigned interest in some purple cloth while in reality bottling tears behind her eyelids. The weight of fifty men dissolved from her shoulders as those words finally saw daylight, and yet dread poured into her lungs and reminded her that it hadn't changed a thing. She was still trapped to the whim of meticulous George. Guy drank in her words and allowed a lull before softly stepping behind her, his heavy black boots crunching the frost beneath them.

"You need a husband. Could you consider, in time, that perhaps I…?"

"You're in my top three options," she meekly joked before turning to him. Gisborne's brow furrowed a bit as her red stained eyes succumbed to the crying spell that clawed up her throat.

She could not keep up the charade of calm any longer, she could not hide behind jests, and she could not smile her way out of London's looming approach. Without much thought Catherine crashed against him, her forehead buried against his chest as the tears overwhelmed her. Guy felt himself freeze, his muscles tensed in shock as hormones pounded against his veins. The attack dog of Nottingham gingerly removed his gloves and held Catherine through her emotional surge.

They had touched on multiple occasions before: light taps on the forearm, intertwined elbows at a party entrance, playful swats following up a joke – but never like this. Gisborne's mind did not register the bite of winter as his bare skin caressed her. His left hand embraced the narrow curve of her waist and pulled her in tightly as the timid fingers of his right hand stroked through her mound of blonde curls. Catherine gripped to the leather of his jacket, her brain rejecting any notion of social propriety – she couldn't give a damn. Guy was the first person in this towering gray city to befriend her, and the only man so far to give her any attention that didn't involve haggling over groceries or insinuating a bedroom. With a degree of shakiness, she stabilized her breathing and regained the reigns of her behavior. The architect's daughter unglued herself from him and wiped away the final tears with embarrassment.

"I'm sorry – I shouldn't have –"

"Shh," Gisborne quietly shushed her before drawing her chest back to his own, "You have nothing to apologize for. I don't like to see you hurting, Catherine; I never intended to upset you."

"You haven't upset me at all, I just get so overwhelmed with change sometimes…"

"I want to take care of you," Guy softly told her, his thumb wiping off a rogue tear as linen billowed around them. The thoroughfare of the town and all of its residents seemed miles away from their secluded conversation, although in truth they were only steps from the crushing reality of their obligations.

"Guy, I don't know if whatever we have is meant to last forever," she said while looking into his ice blue eyes, "but I do know that I can't just pretend my feelings for you don't exist. If I am to go to London, then I will spend the rest of my life wondering what could have been in Nottingham."

Gisborne felt the oxygen clump in his Adam's apple, nerves fizzling under his flesh. He still held the blonde by the waist and felt so giddy at her touch. Catherine was looking up to his visage with pink cheeks and a quivering lip that made his knees weak. Blue hued cloth swirled behind Guy as all of his rationality evaporated, the desire to be closer to tender Catherine far too irresistible.

The gravity of this moment felt so different than any that he had shared with Marian. Bubbling anticipation, the warm sense of safety, hunger for intimacy – the sensation had never been quite like this before. Sweet little Catherine was so open and trusting with her emotion; there were no head games or turns of phrase to navigate. She stood before Gisborne as a damsel in distress and he yearned for the fulfillment of rescuing her.

He drew Catherine in by the waist again, this time with a hand beneath her chin and brought his lips to hers. She responded immediately by parting her lips to let him in and rolled up on to the balls of her feet to better equate their height. She tenderly set her hands on either side of his face, fingertips tickling at the whiskers of Gisborne's stubble. Their kiss was passionate and yet careful, each of them knowing this would only make it harder to say goodbye.

Marian turned away and attempted to catch her breath, leaning her weight against the solid stone wall of Nottingham castle. Surely her eyes had been mistaken. Marian bravely looked out the window over the town once more to subdue such radical imaginings and was shocked to confirm that it was not a trick of the mind – several stories below her and sitting under the smoke of a bakery was Guy of Gisborne with his arms around Catherine Nash, their lips tied together in ardor. She instinctually pushed to the other side of the hall and tried to rationalize the swirled concoctions of emotion that washed over her body. Marian clutched her auburn braid and recovered from the shellshock before skipping down an adjacent spiral staircase. She could not keep a secret like this to herself and instantly knew just who she had to go find.


	12. Chapter 12

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"The architect's girl?"

"Sure enough," Marian confirmed with raised eyebrows. Robin of Locksley furrowed his brow and pondered her message as the leaves of Sherwood Forest rustled around them. A thick layer of frost had trapped several patches of foliage together with berries and branches glistening, the discreet door of the outlaw camp groaning each time it opened against the will of the ice. The band of criminals were bundled in thick layers of wool to keep warm against the cruel winter of England.

"Well hey, I don't blame him," Allan chipped in while running his hands in the shape of an hourglass, his eyes wistfully picturing Catherine, "Will knows what I'm talking about."

"What? No! I don't!" Will growled back as Allan fended off displeased stares.

"All gentlemanly comments aside," Marian moved on with a sour taste, "I worry."

"What makes you say that? When you were betrothed to Gisborne he wouldn't have hurt a hair on your head."

"That's true, but I think Catherine is out of her depth here," Marian sighed while seating herself atop a cold wooden chest, "From what I know, she has always lived in Durham, Norfolk – places with Sheriffs quite friendly to our own. I wouldn't be surprised if they ran their counties in a similar fashion. This poor girl probably doesn't know any better; she doesn't realize England can have actual justice with sane people at the helm."

"I don't think this is life changing information, Marian, but I always appreciate your visits," Hood grinned from beneath a thick cloak.

"I will admit that after seeing it, I…" Marian flicked a glance to their comrades and hesitated to continue, "I felt a need to be with you."

"Are you hurt? Jealous?" Robin accused with a mild tone of jest.

"No, I never loved him. I dreaded the fact that I was meant to marry him, but – well that's just it. I was meant to marry him. That should be me. Or rather, could have been me, but instead I am locked away in the castle like some disloyal pet."

"Not too much time has passed since your wedding day. You know, I could understand if it's a bit complicated for you," he conceded with a bit of dejection. His heart yearned for Marian to be in sync with him, but he knew logically that their lives were worlds apart. Unfortunately, his nemesis had far more time with his love each day than Robin ever could. Naturally her humors and thoughts would be a bit scattered at Gisborne's ability to move on while she was imprisoned alone and severed from the rightful Lord of Locksley. Marian shook her head adamantly and wore her false smile.

"It's just that we should be able to share that on your land, in your manor, not watch Gisborne run off with more of what should belong to you. Forget it, it must be a silly thing for a man to try and understand."

"Well as a man I certainly can't understand wanting to be with Gisborne – it just makes my skin crawl," Much muttered from behind brewing pots.

"Speaking of girl talk," Robin continued before sliding to sit closely with Marian, "you should try to get whatever you can out of Catherine. She was very easily spooked and I don't think it will go any better if I approach her again, especially if she is deep in Gisborne's pockets."

"What exactly do you think girl talk is, Robin? Shall I go up to her and say, 'Oh, hello, by the way, the man you're all over is actually dreadful. Oh, and we were supposed to be married before Easter but oops. Anyway, what's your father planning, hm?' "

"If that's what you like," he shrugged, "I won't tell you how to do your job. But seriously, Marian, well done getting us that lumber contact. Frederick was a big score to delay this thing, but we're still going in blind. What does the Sheriff need to keep so secure?"

"I will see what I can do. Now, I really must be back to Nottingham before I am missed."

"But I miss you already," Robin softly said as she returned to her patient mare on the path.

"I will try to see you for Christmas," Marian sweetly grinned before departing for the warm shelter of the castle, her heart filled with dismay to know that Robin and his gang would have no such protection from the weather as the night fell victim to falling temperatures.

In Nottingham, the Nash home was combatting the elements with thick woolen clothing and blazing hearth fires. The orange haze of flames left a warm glow across the lower level as supper was served. George allowed his hunger to rush his pace while Catherine slowly pecked at the bread and cabbage stew, her mind miles away in gritty London. As the castle planner finished his meal with a few bites of cheese she saw her opportunity to pipe up.

"Daddy, when you go London at the end of the month I'd like to stay here."

"Ha! Darling, that is not a wise idea."

"But why not? When I'm married, I will have my own home and schedule to be where I wish when I wish it – or will you plan to linger there and arrange these things for me still?"

"My dear," George lent her a weak smile before reaching across the wooden table and holding her dainty hand, "I worry about leaving you a hundred miles away; it's a journey that takes several days. I couldn't just hop back if anything were to happen."

"What would happen? The castle is practically on our doorstep! I reckon I'm almost as safe as the Sheriff."

"Like when Robin Hood vandalized our home?"

"I'm sure that is unlikely to happen again."

"I will be away for nearly a fortnight!"

"When you return, I will have your favorite meal prepared," Catherine smiled with a glimmer of hope. She ached for even this small stretch of freedom to be out from under his thumb.

"I expect Guy of Gisborne would see his opportunity to harass you."

"No, actually, he is leaving for London as well."

"Lovely," George rolled his eyes with a huff, "hopefully the city is large enough that we won't have to cross paths."

"He has business with Prince John, he says, but I don't know what about. I suppose things to wrap up at the end of the year. But you're going on Boxing Day and he will be out the following morning; I would have no one to bother me. The quiet would be so nice!"

"I will think about it," he replied, trepidation on his tongue, "but it would be a privilege. I mean it, Catherine, I am sick of your love for this place; you need to focus on our future."

"I don't see why you hate it here so much," she shrugged while standing to clear the table, "the folks have been really lovely and Sherwood Forest is gorgeous to ride through on a clear morning."

"Nottingham is marred by the stench of filth: outlaws, poverty, obscene taxation and legislation."

"And London has none of that?" Catherine said doubtfully, her back to her father as she stored their mugs, "How lovely it will be to live in a city with zero crime."

"It's different here, darling, and it's all to do with these politicians. I remember a time when I wouldn't mind leaving you be, but now… and you just keep putting yourself right in the middle of it. This friendship of yours with Gisborne is simply preposterous, for starters!"

"Daddy, please!" she whined while running her hands through her thick blonde curls, "Would you just leave it? Give Guy a break!"

"You say it so casually – 'Guy.' He has a title, much to my dislike, but you will show propriety. You are not that familiar," George scolded as her blue eyes glanced away to the window. Chunky hard snow was piling up along the cobbled street and blotting out the few remaining streaks of sunlight in the day. Catherine fiddled with the hem on her sleeve and shook her head minutely.

"But… we are. I know the two of you have your professional relationship or whatever, and that may not be so great, but I have a fondness for him that I can't explain."

"Fond of him as a friend?"

"… More than I have ever felt for any friend," she grinned shyly as George guffawed. He sat back in his creaking chair, visage gob smacked, but had a dreaded suspicion that this was not unbeknownst knowledge. The creeping fear of her adoration for Nottingham's villain had always been swept under the rug in his mind. Now, however, he sat shocked at hearing the words actually come from her mouth.

"I won't hear of it! Catherine, you are being a silly child!"

"Just because you don't like them doesn't mean my feelings don't exist!" she countered with a climbing voice. He could see in his daughter's eyes that she was prepared to stand her ground, the determination boiling up George's frustration. He wished to lock her away for a few more months until he could sort her life out; if only it would be possible.

"I think this break from him will be good for you," George eventually said with measured words, "It will give you time to clear your head."

"Daddy, I care for him more than you know – "

"You have known him for three months!"

"I will not apologize for having feelings!" Catherine stomped before charging up the stairs to her bedroom, the slam of her solid wood door intended as a sharp punctuation to their disagreement. Her father tapped his knuckles into the dining table, his mind racing at the foolish naivety that she had just presented.

George had raised his daughter alone for nearly twenty years and had never quite known how to handle her. She was an emotional creature, one with plenty of sass but even more tenderness. He had hoped that her years serving at the Ellis manor would foster independence and maturity, and yet he still found her to be sensitive and filled with daydreams. His natural response had been to shorten the leash, dictate the path, and micromanage her life to ensure she was not too frivolous with it. It had never occurred to George that perhaps this approach would be more stunting than beneficial, but he was seeing this outcome flourish before his eyes. He just wanted to be a good father, dammit, why wouldn't Catherine accept his help and wisdom?

With a huff the architect retreated to his office to tweak and control the one thing his hands could always mold: schematics. Parchment did not mouth off of stamp away, nor did it find defiant fancies or unsavory company. His designs were always welcoming of George's critique and change, and so he chose to spend the rest of the evening in their presence rather than Catherine's.


	13. Chapter 13

Several inches of crisp snow had attacked northern England as December rolled on, the harsh ice gripping at thatched roofs and slick stone alike. Even on Christmas morning the weather was not kind enough to let up. Pious townsfolk had endured the cold to attend midnight mass and slept through the worst of the storm to find December 25th filled with a blanketed calm. Apples and evergreen painted Nottingham with festive cheer and gleamed beneath twinkling snow, children and adults bundled themselves up to play and dance in the streets, and the kitchen workers of Nottingham castle soldiered on to prepare nearly one hundred pounds of food and drink to celebrate the end of the Advent fast.

The local lords and nobles prepared their villages for the jaunty time, and Guy of Gisborne was no different. With his manorial duties delegated for the day, the man in black rode briskly to the township and prepared to settle into the engulfing stone walls of the castle. His stallion's hard hooves pressed over muddy slush and fallen bay leaves as it trudged across the gate house threshold and entered the city. Happy locals chatted excitedly in the narrow roads while their less festive counterparts cleared frost from their home's windows and doorframes. In a lazy pace Gisborne directed his horse to make a small detour before reaching the portcullis; he was determined to get a glimpse of Miss Nash before the festivities of the evening.

In the bustle of the crowds, she did not notice his arrival. Guy dismounted and calmly led his war horse along the cobbled path while drinking in the sight of her. Catherine stood at the front of her home, clumps of dissolving snow cleared to its edges, and worked to perfect the holiday décor. She strained to readjust drooping evergreen boughs that bordered the entry, her balance barely held on tip-toes. Gisborne felt a frozen claw tug at his heart; terror screeched in his mind that she was only moments away from slipping into a severe injury on such slick ground. With a hustle in his step he approached the blonde and grabbed the greenery above her head.

"You shouldn't be out here doing this yourself; you're going to get injured on this ice."

"The wind last night took half of these down," Catherine sighed as she went flat footed and readjusted her thick shawl, "but they have to be right for the Twelve Days of Christmas."

"Allow me to help," Guy pressed as he reached across her, his arms managing the height much more comfortably than hers could.

"My hero."

"It's no trouble."

"I don't know why they make these doorways so tall, it's ridiculous. I should have gotten a stool."

"Well, they aren't tall for most of us," he jested with a smirk. Catherine chuckled and playfully nudged him from behind, flecks of snow brushing down on them from the vines of the contorted blackthorn bush along the wall.

"Are you mocking my height?"

"I wouldn't make fun of your height, Catherine; I could never stoop so low."

"Alright you! I may be short, but I'm not afraid of a fight. I will get you right in the knees."

"Shit!" Gisborne winced as the prickly bush struck his skin again. He recoiled his right arm quickly and plucked out two thorns, each at least an inch long. Catherine's cobalt blue eyes widened as she caringly clutched his arm.

"Let me get this cleaned up for you!"

"It's fine."

"No, these blackthorns are nothing to trifle with. You can take a fever from these things if it's not cleaned properly; come inside."

"I'm sure I will survive this; I have made it through much worse," Guy asserted with a flavor of amusement in his words. The petite blonde opened the entrance to her home and led him inside, never removing her hand from his forearm.

She instructed him to sit at the dining table and, as he did, rifled through a trunk to find a satchel of basic medical supplies. As Catherine returned, bottles in hand, a pleasure bubbled up inside of his ribs that Gisborne could not quiet identify. It was so thrilling and satisfying to see this sympathetic and stunning girl doting on him. Her touch was soft as she helped to roll up his right sleeve, her expression flashing a pang of empathetic pain at the rough scores along his wrist. Confusion and bliss collided in his veins as his mind churned to make sense of her unconditional kindness. She was warm, she was generous – she was too good for a sadistic monster like him.

Catherine hummed to herself as she saturated a scrap of linen in rose oil. When she gingerly cleansed along the cuts, she had expected him to flinch and yet Guy sat like a stone, his icy blue eyes as set and cool as the snow on the window. His stare was not menacing, nor did it make her uncomfortable. If anything, it held a sultry undertone that tugged a small smile to the corner of her lips.

"I would have been perfectly fine, you know."

"It would be such a shame to have you survive slings of arrows and atrocities in the Holy Land, only to succumb to stubbornness against a blackthorn bush," she joked while reaching for a jar of rendered fat.

With a gentle touch she brushed the fat in a thin layer across his wounds to seal them, the buzzing energy between them growing. Few words were spoken and yet avalanches of giddy tension crashed around the couple. Catherine allowed her fingertips to linger as she applied the last of his treatment. Beneath the base of his rolled-up cuff protruded the edge of another injury, this one clearly mended by time, the rough texture of flesh resembling a craggy stone. Catherine felt curiosity and sorrow cling to her simultaneously. She had never seen such damage and couldn't imagine the anguish he must have felt sustaining it. Perhaps it was by fire, or searing hot metal, but it did not stop her from wanting to repair something that happened so long ago. She slithered her touch up his forearm until just brushing the burn mark when Guy flinched away, his sudden jerk making her jump. He swallowed his Adam's apple followed by his pride and set his arm back on the sturdy tabletop. She obediently rolled the sleeve of his woolen jersey back down and gave half of a smile.

"That ought to do it," Catherine told him before packing away the medicinal oils into their satchel, "Unfortunately, I don't really have anything to help with the pain."

"I can think of something," Gisborne replied with a sly grin, his creaking oak chair sliding nearer to hers.

She did not dream of shutting down his advances as he stroked his fingers through her hair. With a small smirk that highlighted her dimples Catherine leaned into him and accepted his kiss, their electric energy mirroring excited adolescents. She gently cupped his face with one hand and placed the other on his knee; the contact drove the soldier insane. As their lips lingered and began to play more passionately Guy felt his body erupting with hormones and hunger. She was not the first woman he craved in lust, but she was certainly alone in the way she sparked his desires. The way she saw him, nurtured him, and treasured him was entirely unique; no previous bedmate or betrothed had ever given him such a human place in their hearts. Gisborne ached for his own satiation with her flesh, but found himself thirsting even more for her own pleasure. He needed to return even a drop of the wonder that she gifted him with. He felt himself teetering on the verge of losing self-control before a slamming door on the upper floor yanked their lips apart. The fun and games ceased as a wave of panic hit them.

"Shit, is your father home?"

"Uh, yes," Catherine meekly confirmed before thunderous footsteps bounded to approach them. With his buzz gone Guy rolled his eyes and stood to grab his coat.

"What in the hell are you doing in my house?"

"He was just leaving, Daddy," Catherine stated while pushing in her own chair to the table, "He was injured so I helped clean the wound. That's all."

"Injured?"

"Yes, that nasty blackthorn bush out front got him."

"He's a grown ass man, Master at Arms at Nottingham, and he needs you to remove a thorn?"

"That's what I said," Gisborne muttered with a sigh as he escaped to the exit, his eyes never making contact with the architect. Catherine fumbled with her rose oil dampened linen as her father continued to hound his way across the room

"If you're really so fragile to mere a prick, Gisborne, I suggest you receive aid from your own doctors in the castle. Leave my daughter be!"

"Oh, there's a hell of a prick here alright," Guy whipped around and shot daggers into George's eyes with his insult, "but Catherine has a certain _touch_ to medicine that I certainly don't want from any doctor."

"You son of a-"

"Alright, he's leaving!" Catherine interjected with aggravation as she squeezed her father's shoulder to subdue his fury. She crossed the men to open the door and waved out the man in black. Gisborne allowed his sinister glare to remain before turning and exiting the threshold, winter's frozen breath crashing upon him outdoors, "Why do you have to do that?"

"I didn't start it," he responded while tugging his gloves on tightly.

"What are you, four years old?"

"Will I see you tonight? For the Christmas feast? I would be honored to have you as my personal guest."

"Yes –"

"No," George butted in as he yanked his child away from the door. From behind his shoulder Catherine gave a large grin and mouthed the word 'yes, 'warming Gisborne's heart before he trudged through the slush to retrieve his stallion.

The well-trained horse had waited patiently, his onyx hair doing little to protect him from the chilly fingers of winter that crept along his spine. He obediently followed his master's tug at the reigns and in just moments they were within the castle grounds, massive stone walls shielding them from whipping winds. Within this fortress Gisborne felt secure enough to admit to his own emotions and felt overwhelmed by the compelling drive to make Catherine his own. Through Hell or high water, he had to find a way to coax George over to his side. It would take patience, humility, and kindness – none of which threaded together the fabric that was Guy.


End file.
